


in the dark

by Love_Me_Dead



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Dehydration, Hallucinations, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Pre-Canon, i could not stop, no beta we die like men, this fic is inspired literally by a promo for 2x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28909359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_Me_Dead/pseuds/Love_Me_Dead
Summary: Malcolm gets locked in a closet for three days; Jessica would do anything to find him
Comments: 23
Kudos: 79





	in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the promo for 2x03 and went "haha hope this doesn't awaken anything in me" and then I couldn't stop thinking about it, so, uh. I wrote it. I'm not even mad if canon comes in on Tuesday and tells me I'm wrong - I had fun. Enjoy!

It was nearly nine before Jessica remembered that the phone hadn’t rung at all that evening. Malcolm always called on Friday nights around seven, after dinner and study hall, when he had free time. Every week, like clockwork, he would phone on Friday evening, even if he had called earlier in the week.

Jessica tried to tamp the worry down but she still found herself, her voice quivering just slightly, asking Luisa if she’d heard anything. “Any calls tonight?”

“No, ma’am,” Luisa said. 

She took a sip of her drink.

“Maybe he’s making friends.”

Jessica sighed. “Somehow, he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would play foosball.”

A glance at his watch told him that he’d been stuck in the closet for nearly three hours now, which meant that it was five in the afternoon. He could hear the janitors cleaning the classrooms and he hoped that soon, someone would come in and he could shout for help.

Malcolm took a deep breath and settled against the wooden wall. It wasn’t terrible being trapped in the closet. At least he didn’t have to go to study hall and pretend he knew what the fuck was going on in his calculus class. And he didn’t have to go to dinner and push food around his plate as if he would actually eat any of it.

The lights flickered on in the classroom and Malcolm sat up quickly, peering through the slats in the closet at the janitor who entered. His heart sank when he saw who it was - Victor, the Deaf janitor who had found Malcolm asleep in the library once. 

He’d taught Malcolm how to say thank you and spell his name in ASL - the reason Malcolm had checked a book on ASL out from the library and was trying to teach himself.

Victor would never hear him in the closet, no matter how loud he screamed or how hard he banged on the door. And even though Malcolm had taught himself how to say  _ help me _ in ASL, it would be no use through the opaque door of the closet.

Malcolm sighed and bit down hard on his lip - he didn’t have any water and he was already thirsty. He was used to the dry mouth from his meds, the tackiness against his gums, but he always kept water to combat it.

He wouldn’t have any water for as long as he was trapped here. But that couldn’t be very long, could it? Sure, Victor wouldn’t notice him, stuck in the closet of the English classroom, but someone would notice he was gone at dinner. And tonight, before lights out, someone would notice.

Someone had to notice.

His head pounded and it was late now. Victor had left, shut the door behind him and locked it, and Malcolm was still in the closet. It was eight, by his watch, which meant that he’d missed phoning Mother and reassuring her that he was still alive.

She would call, though, and someone would look for him. 

He rested his head against the wall and breathed slowly, just the way Gabrielle had taught him. Counting his breaths helped take his mind of the pain and the fact that his hands were shaking.

Someone had to come find him soon. His stomach hurt and he remembered that he hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning. For lunch, he’d just had some jello. He wouldn’t last long like this.

The main building was locked every Friday night. He knew that from the time he tried to sneak into the library and found himself facing a locked door. Someone would come find him, though. Someone would confess the last time they’d seen Malcolm.

_ You deserve to be locked up - just like your dear old dad _ .

He ran his hands through his hair, resting them at the nape of his neck, where Gil would hold him. It wasn’t as soothing, though, because it was his own hand, not Gil’s.

_ We’re the same _ .

Malcolm shook his head. His breathing was getting away from him. He dug his fingernails into his palms and took a deep breath.

Someone had to come get him soon.

On Saturday morning, Jessica called Remington Academy. She did not like that Malcolm had missed their regular phone call last night. It felt  _ off _ to her, like there was something wrong.

“Rest assured, Mrs. Whitly, your son’s well-being is our top priority,” the secretary said.

“I’d like to speak with the headmaster.”

“He’s away at a conference this weekend. Can I take a message?”

Jessica tightened her lips and took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “I would like to speak with someone who can tell me what’s going on with my son.”

“Can you hold please?”

Before Jessica could stammer out a demand to  _ not _ be put on hold, some gentle hold music played in her ear and she groaned loudly into the expanse of her living room.

Malcolm woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. He forgot, for a moment, that he was in the closet. He glanced at his watch. It was morning and he must have been asleep for some time now. 

His mouth was drier than ever. And he had missed his morning dose of meds by now, but the worse thing was the dehydration. 

Saturday morning. And no one had noticed he was gone yet. 

He’d missed his weekly phone call with Mother and she would be so angry. He’d once called her half an hour late because Nick Thompson had dumped a bowl of soup over his head and even then, she was upset.

His heart rate didn’t calm as it usually did when he got settled into waking up. He felt dizzy and hungry and thirsty and horribly, horribly nauseous. 

He leaned his body weight against the door, seeing if there was any give to it. He wasn’t even sure what he would do if the door popped open. He hadn’t tried standing since yesterday and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to carry himself out the classroom and down the hall.

The door was locked tight. There was no hope in hell of him breaking that door open unless he could summon some kind of superhuman strength.

He was not going to get out of here on his own.

He might die here.

Jessica held the phone to her ear, taking a deep breath. Her hands shook and she was trying to hide her fear from Ainsley, who sat and watched from the couch, too inquisitive for her age.

She stepped into the hall, listening to the ringtone and waiting for him to pick up.

“Sargeant Arroyo.”

“Gil,” she said, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice. “How are you?”

“Jessica?”

She bit down hard on her lip. “I need your help.”

“What’s going on?” Despite everything, he was always willing to help.

“It’s Malcolm…”

Because, at the end of the day, it was always Malcolm.

Malcolm tapped his head rhythmically on the wooden wall behind him. It took his mind off his pounding headache, off the way his muscles were cramping up, off the aching dizziness. He could barely look at the wall across from him without seeing it turn and twist.

And he’d only been here for twenty four hours. 

The Surgeon had killed someone by dehydration to mark all of their symptoms and how quickly they came. He wished he had access to one of Dad’s journals now, to see what kind of hell awaited him.

“Well, it’s going to be agony.”

Dad stood in front of him, in his Claremont uniform and soft cardigan. 

Malcolm squinted. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to save your life.”

He snorted and continued tapping his head against the wall.

“Keep doing that and eventually, you’ll start bleeding. And you don’t want that.”

Malcolm reached back and touched the crown of his head. He wasn’t bleeding, but it was raw to the touch.

“You need to get out of here.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” It was hard to speak, like he had to consciously remember how to form his mouth to make sounds. And his tongue was so dry. 

“I don’t think you’ve tried hard enough.”

Malcolm glared towards the door, the slats of light coming in from the window and the desks arranged in rows down the classroom. He needed to get out.

He pushed against the slats of the closet door and braced his feet against the back of the wall, but he was too short to gain much leverage. The door was firmly locked in place, no matter how hard he tried to reach by pushing.

His legs cramped and he yelped, grasping at them. 

“Your potassium is low,” Dad said. 

Malcolm hissed, bowing his head towards his chest. Someone had to come find him soon.

“Oh, no one’s coming. You need to figure this out on your own, my boy.”

“I can’t!”

“Don’t give up so easily.”

Malcolm sobbed, banging his fist against the door. 

“You’re not producing any tears.”

He glanced up at Dad, touching his cheek. Dry. 

“You gotta get out of here.”

Someone had to come for him. Someone had to save him.

“Or you’re going to die here.”

Gil didn’t think he would spend his Saturday on the phone with a very secretive boarding school, but that’s how it was shaping up. He was meant to spend the weekend in the Catskills with Jackie, skiing and snowshoeing. Instead, he was pacing around Jessica Whitly’s home.

Over the hold music, Gil sighed and looked at Jessica. “We have to go up there.”

“It’s nearly four hours away,” Jessica said.

“They’re not going to give us any answers over the phone.”

She swallowed. “Gil, I have a terrible feeling about this.”

“He’s probably fine.”

From what little information the school had given them, Malcolm wasn’t present at dinner last night, nor at lights out. They suggested he’d gone home with a friend for the weekend.

But Malcolm Whitly didn’t have friends. The only place he would go was Gil’s and they always talked about it beforehand. Some weekends he couldn’t handle staying in the dorms, so he would ask if he could stay in the spare bedroom at Gil’s, and the answer was always yes. Jackie loved it, too - loved doting on Malcolm and caring for him.

Gil tightened his hands around the steering wheel at the thought there was something wrong with his kid.

Malcolm fell asleep again. It was probably the most sleep he’d gotten. Really, he should thank his bullies for locking him in here.

He woke up again to near-total darkness. Peering through the slats of the closet door, he could see that it was dark out. Nearly forty-eight hours trapped in a closet, and he was no closer to escaping.

He should have slammed the door on the first day. He shouldn’t have counted on a janitor finding him or anyone noticing that he was gone that evening. No one cared about him. And this was just confirmation in the worst possible way.

Three days. And he had already suffered through two of them.

It was starting to settle in, with the recurrent figure of Dad berating him and reminding him of how long he had left.

He was going to die here.

At least Mother would sue the school and hopefully the bullies would get some kind of retribution for their actions. At least he wouldn’t have to suffer here anymore with all the teasing and the glances and the harassment.

It was pointless to keep trying to break down the door. He was going to die. It would just increase his pain and his suffering.

His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he couldn’t think clearly. All the words Gabrielle had ever told him muddled together in his head. He couldn’t focus on anything, let alone  _ coping mechanisms _ or  _ breathing techniques _ . Did it matter if he was calm?

“This is because of you,” Malcolm mumbled. 

He knew, deep down, that Dad in the corner was a hallucination, but it still felt good to talk.

“Here we go, playing the blame game,” Dad sighed.

“They all know what you did. They all know I’m your son. It’s - it’s God getting back at you, or something, for what you did.”

A memory - a flash. A girl locked in a box - chains around her wrists. The same girl in the back of the car, shifting, moaning.

_ “Help me,” she whispered. “Please, you have to untie me. I promise I won’t tell anyone, just please let me go.” _

_ Malcolm stared at her over the backseat, shifting, her hands tied down. _

_ Someone grabbed him around the waist and covered his mouth with a damp cloth. _

And Malcolm was experiencing the same thing. Except - instead of a car, it was a closet at his school. 

His hands shook and he was too hot. Nausea rolled over him and he heaved, only losing a small puddle of saliva. He laid down flat against the floor, pressing his hot face against the cool concrete. 

He would die here. 

“How do you lose a sixteen year old boy?” Jessica snapped.

“Mrs. Whitly, I understand your concern, but we are working incredibly hard to locate your son,” the deputy headmistress said. 

“It’s been two days,” Gil said. “Where could he have gone?”

Professor Austin looked down at her desk. “It’s possible he may have attempted to run away.”

“Is there any evidence of that?” Gil asked.

She glanced away. “Unfortunately, no.”

The office would be impressive if Gil wasn’t here looking for Malcolm. Professor Austin sat in front of an expansive bookshelf and her various degrees were displayed on the wall to Gil’s left. 

“What other possibilities are there?” Jessica asked.

Professor Austin kept her eyes on the desk, her posture perfect and her hands folded in front of her. “The other children…”

“Call an emergency meeting,” Gil said. “I want to talk to his class.”

“Mr. Arroyo -”

“It’s Sargeant Arroyo. Get his class in the gym  _ now _ .”

The kids sat on the bleachers with blank stares on their faces, completely bored by what Gil had to say about a student being missing. None of them offered any information - just the same blank stares. Gil was fairly certain two girls in the back were whispering about him, too.

“Who last saw Malcolm Whitly?” Gil asked.

One kid in the front, bouncing his knee, glanced back to the group of boys who seemed to be too cool to be here. 

“Anyone?”

The kid in the front raised his hand. “He stayed behind to ask a question in history on Friday.”

“Thank you. Anyone else?”

“I haven’t seen him since Friday,” said another girl, who looked bored out of her mind.

Gil nodded and looked over the crowd of kids - too rich for their own good. Of course, this was only the boarding crowd; the day students were at home with their parents for the weekend. None of them jumped out to him as potential criminals.

“Thank you.”

He went back to Professor Austin, who sat silently in her office with Jessica. 

“I need access to the history classroom,” Gil said.

“There is no chance that Mr. Whitly found himself stuck in a classroom for two days,” she said. “The janitors would have found him.”

“It was the last place he was seen.”

Professor Austin sighed and grabbed a ring of keys. With her chin held high, she walked down the hall, her high-heels clacking against the tile, and Gil was a pace behind her.

“This is Dr. Young’s history classroom,” she said, stuffing a key into the lock. “And Victor Harris, our janitor, cleaned it on Friday after classes.”

She opened the door and Gil hated that he didn’t immediately see Malcolm sitting at one of the desks. 

“I would  _ hope _ that our janitors were perceptive enough to notice a student in the classroom.”

Gil stepped in and turned on the lights. He walked around the classroom, towards the blackboard and the desks. Nothing was out of place - every piece of chalk was where it should be.

Maybe Malcolm  _ had _ run away. Maybe he’d run off into the forest and drowned himself in the river. Or hitchhiked off somewhere with some creep.

“Have you seen everything, Officer?”

Gil curled his hands into fists. “It’s Sargeant.”

There was a clatter. A noise from behind the teacher’s desk. Gil’s hand twitched instinctively towards his gun and he walked over.

“What’s stored in here?” He asked, glancing back.

Professor Austin shrugged. “Spare books?” She offered.

Gil looked at the closet - a single hinged door with a lock that was hooked into place. He eased the lock open and pulled the door.

Crumpled on the floor of the closet - pale and limp - was Malcolm Whitly.

“Call an ambulance,” Gil ordered.

He knelt down next to the kid, pressing his fingers under his jaw. There was a pulse, weak and thready, but it was there. His eyes were sunken and his lips were pale and dry and he was barely conscious, just enough to make a small noise in the back of his throat at the way Gil moved him.

“Hey, kid,” Gil said. “Hey, it’s going to be okay.”

Malcolm opened his eyes and offered a half-smile. 

Gil worried that he was lying.

Jessica sat in the waiting room with a paper cup of coffee in her hands, the only thing keeping her from spiraling. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see her son - her baby - on the floor of the history classroom, half-dead. If she stopped focusing on the sounds of the hospital around her, she could hear Malcolm’s scream ringing in her ears.

The paramedics had flocked to him and pushed Jessica to the sidelines of the classroom, watching in horror. He was delirious, couldn’t form complete sentences, and kept mumbling about his father.

They couldn’t get proper IV access in his vein. He was too dehydrated and his veins kept collapsing. The paramedics had argued for a minute before deciding that Malcolm was literally minutes from death and they would have to start an IV in his tibia.

“His - his bone?” Jessica asked.

“It feeds into the venous system,” one of the paramedics said with a reassuring smile.

They had gotten a bigger needle out and positioned it a few inches under his knee. One of them apologized before they shoved the needle hard and Malcolm screamed.

The scream echoed in her ears - a scream of pure pain. 

Jessica rested her head against her hand and took a deep breath. He had gone three days without food, without water, without his meds. She rattled off the list for the paramedics and they told her that he was probably hallucinating - from the withdrawal as well as the dehydration. 

Gil stepped into the waiting room, hands in his pockets. 

“Thank you for finding him,” she whispered, more to her coffee cup than to Gil himself.

He stepped closer, sat down next to her, and took her hand, squeezing. “He should think about pressing charges.”

Jessica looked at their hands, clutched together, with Gil’s wedding ring shining in the light. She nodded mechanically. “I’ll talk to him.”

“They said you can go see him now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, Jess?”

She stood, pressing her lips together. “Ruining your weekend plans.”

“I’d do anything for the kid,” Gil said quietly.

Jessica drained the coffee cup and dropped it in the trashcan by the door.

Malcolm felt childish, eating ice chips off a plastic baby spoon and slowly sucking on them. They were pineapple flavoured and he wasn’t sure anything had ever tasted so good, so sweet. 

Mom ran her hand through his hair and smiled. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” he said. 

“You’ll have to wait a little longer to start eating real food again,” she said. “We’ll have a feast when you’re feeling better.”

He smiled and looked down at his hands. They had removed the needle from his leg in the morning and stuck an IV in the back of his hand. 

Mom held the spoon to his lips again and Malcolm took it, sucking. “Are you going to press charges?”

Malcolm thought of his bullies. He knew his name like the back of his hand. But if he said anything, everything would get so much worse. If they’d locked him in a closet for three days, what would they try next?

“I didn’t see who it was,” he mumbled.

Mom took a deep breath and kissed his head. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

He looked up at her and smiled, leaning into her touch. He was safe. 

**Author's Note:**

> eta: the intraosseous infusion technique comes from 6.22 of _House_!
> 
> please let me know what you think with kudos, comments or yell at me on [my tumblr](https://bibright.tumblr.com)


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